


Sweet Sorceress

by IndigoDream



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jolene's Jaskier, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Canon, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Songs, if you will, softhorny, this is REALLY soft yall, what about it, yah I rewrote Jolene by Dolly Parton for Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: Jaskier has tried to tell himself he isn’t heartbroken, but he has always been a shitty liar. To himself, that is. He lied his way through people so easily it astonished even him. It is, after all, much easier to lie to someone else than to his own self, especially when it comes to feelings. In his line of work anyway, he can’t exactly lie to himself; he uses his own emotions to write and perform his songs, especially the ballads. So no matter how many times he tries to tell himself he isn’t heartbroken, it doesn’t work.--It's been a year since the mountain. Jaskier meets up unexpectedly with Ciri and Geralt, and is forced to share a room with them.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 576





	Sweet Sorceress

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO  
> This started because I lowkey have an obsession with Jolene by Dolly Parton,,, it's a good song,,, You should def listen to it + her sweet kiss while reading this but no pressure,,, 
> 
> This was marketed to friends as "heartbroken, gay, and horny" so
> 
> Also special shoutout to @whitepaw75 for helping me write the song and basically whipping it into shape, bc it was a bit of a mess ngl 
> 
> Have fun!

Jaskier has tried to tell himself he isn’t heartbroken, but he has always been a shitty liar. To himself, that is. He lied his way through people so easily it astonished even him. It is, after all, much easier to lie to someone else than to his own self, especially when it comes to feelings. In his line of work anyway, he can’t exactly lie to himself; he uses his own emotions to write and perform his songs, especially the ballads. So no matter how many times he tries to tell himself he isn’t heartbroken, it doesn’t work. 

Here is the truth: when he walked away from Geralt on that mountain, he had wanted to be angry. He had wanted to hate Geralt and curse him and forget him and everything they had shared. He had wanted to blame Yennefer for everything that had happened between Geralt and him, had even written _Her Sweet Kiss_ for this. He had wanted to rip his own heart out of his chest and throw it to the wolves, to any creatures that was willing to have it, simply because the aching there was too much for him. 

It’s been over a year now, and Jaskier’s heart still aches, but it has faded to a dull ache. In the morning, he wakes up to an empty room or clearing, depending on the day, and in the evening, he goes to sleep alone, no one to watch over him but the cruel gods who play with his fate. He isn’t used to the loneliness anymore, to the way it weighs on him. He should be used to it again, after all this time, but he can’t. He tries to forget the pain in his heart, fucking and getting fucked until he forgets even his own name, until he barely feels human anymore. It doesn’t work. Each time, he comes back to himself in an even worse state than before. 

_This has to stop_ , he tells himself one day. He still has years ahead of him, he can’t waste them by loving a man who will never love him back. So he does what he has always done whenever his feelings are too big for him, he writes a song. 

_Her Sweet Kiss_ is good, it’s even pretty amazing, people love it and eat it up, and all the ladies look teary-eyed when he performs it in inns. But it doesn’t reflect his need for change. He wants to move on, to get past his own need for Geralt. He needs to release that need from within him, that silly hope that he had lived in for nearly twenty years, in which he was Geralt’s lover, and Geralt was his, and they could always find one another again. 

When he is satisfied with the song, when he has the melody written down and the lyrics all chosen, he cries once. He allows himself that one weakness, and then he forbids himself from doing it again. And for a few weeks it works. The song, titled _Sweet Sorceress_ is a wide success. People love its rather catchy tune, the way it exposes his heart raw, and they feel it follows the narrative of _Her Sweet Kiss_. Whenever someone asks him what inspired to write the song, he lies and says that it tells the story of some lady whose lover was stolen by a mage. He’s aware he shouldn’t cultivate the fear of mages amongst the peasants; he does it anyway. 

He stops at an inn during the fall, on his way back to Oxenfurt. He has grown weary of travelling alone, he wants to enjoy the comforts of teaching again, of having his peers respect him and praise him for his talent. He is one of the best bards of the Continent, Valdo Marx be damned, and he deserves proper respect. 

After a drink or three, he picks back up his lute, exchanges a glance with the innkeeper who only shrugs, and starts playing. He is feeling the heartache that night, so he starts off slowly, playing some older ballads, but he inevitably circles back to _Her Sweet Kiss_. The song leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but damn him if he isn’t proud of it. 

“As a final performance,” he announces to the crowd, who’s been humouring him and paying some good coin, “my newest creation, for your ears only, _Sweet Sorceress_!” 

_Oh darling, darling,_

_I’m begging of you, please don’t take him from me._

_Oh darling, darling,_

_Please don’t take him just because you can._

His voice doesn’t break but it’s a short thing, so he clears his throat slightly, starts dancing as he plays. A few young girls join in as he continues, clearly taken in by the rhythm and his somewhat erratic behaviour.

 _Your beauty is beyond compare,_

_From dark locks to tender lips,_

_Your eyes shine like gems in the darkest of nights,_

_You enchant and vow love in whispers,_

_Could devour us all with naught a thought,_

_And I would bow low to this demise._

Yennefer is so beautiful. She is beautiful, and wickedly smart. And she and Geralt move together like they were made of the same mold. He remembers seeing them, after the terrible, disastrous, djinn incident. He hadn’t known of which he had been more jealous; Yennefer, for fucking the White Wolf, the love of Jaskier’s life, or Geralt, for fucking the most beautiful woman Jaskier had ever seen.

 _I know you are all he sees,_

_In his sleep, your name parts his lips,_

_So I pray the ground swallow my tears,_

_Drown all my unspoken fears._

_Nothing I can do,_

_But play the unknowing fool,_

_To make him forget your sweet caress._

He sings the chorus again, trying to not let his voice breaks again on the “please” but it’s harder than it should be. He wants to move past it, wants to let himself be free from that overwhelming love in his chest. He doesn’t want to lose himself in this anymore. If he can’t have Geralt, then shouldn’t he be free from his love for him? 

_You’ve your choice amongst mortal men,_

_But I will never love again,_

_He’s the only one for me._

_His arms encircle you,_

_Drawn in by charms I can’t undo,_

_And the love in his gaze is just for you._

_Empty and aching,_

_I leave his tender words to you._

He closes his eyes, lets the song takes him, laughs when he hears little feet striking the ground and dancing around him. Tears escape his eyes, rolling down his cheeks, but he ignores them, keeps a wide smile on his face when he reopens his eyes. He doesn’t focus on the patrons, besides the girls dancing around him. He misses the flash of gold eyes, the pair of white haired people in one of the corners. Later, he’ll wonder if he missed them on purpose.

 _Oh darling, darling,_

_I’m begging of you, please don’t take him from me._

_Oh darling, darling,_

_Please don’t take him just because you can._

_Fairest mage, proud sorceress,_

_I shan’t beg and plead no more,_

_Oh dark-haired beauty._

_This life I lead has me content,_

_If only my heart were not breaking._

_Fairest mage, proud sorceress_

_Let him rest in your arms,_

_Although I hate I do consent._

_Oh dark haired beauty,_

_Keep him,_

_And protect him for me._

The inn cheers, and the girls beg for more, but Jaskier’s throat is dry now, and he simply bows to the patrons, messes the hair of a few of the little girls, and goes back to sit at his table. When he gets there though, he realizes that there are two more people sitting at what had been a previously empty table. He frowns. He had left his pack there, and he is about to question them, to demand what they are doing at his table, when one of the hooded figures look up. 

Gold eyes meet blue eyes, and Jaskier stumbles backwards as he sees Geralt. 

“What are you doing here?” He whispers the question, his voice too broken from the songs, and maybe too broken by a year without seeing him. 

Geralt hears it anyway. “Just looking for a place for the night.” 

“Right.” Jaskier nods, flabbergasted by the Witcher’s presence, by his apparent nonchalance at seeing Jaskier again. “I will… I will leave you to it then.” 

He reaches for his pack, intent on grabbing it and running away as far as he can, to preserve his own dignity and his heart. He is stopped by two things: one, the lost princess of Cintra is looking at him with wide, frightened eyes; two, Geralt’s hand has settled on his upper arm. 

“Sit with us,” Geralt asks, and there is something desperate in his voice. 

Jaskier is weak, and he is wanting, oh so wanting. Geralt has always enthralled him, charmed him beyond what anyone else had done. Even if he has now accepted that Geralt will always love Yennefer, that there is nothing possible between Geralt and himself, Jaskier yearns for his touch. So Jaskier sits.

“This is Ciri,” Geralt nods to Princess Cirilla Fionna Elen Riannon, “My Child of Surprise.” 

Ciri waves shyly, nestled against Geralt’s side, and Jaskier looks at the both of them, astonished. He knows who Ciri is. He has seen her a few times, when he sang at Calanthe’s court. She probably doesn’t remember him, but Jaskier’s made sure she was alright throughout the year. Up until his separation with Geralt, that is. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Ciri anymore, of course he did. It was that she was a reminder of Geralt, a reminder of what Jaskier had had. 

“We are traveling to Kaer Morhen.” Geralt says. 

Jaskier says nothing. He is slightly drunk, exhausted from the day’s travel and his performance, and he is overwhelmed by seeing Geralt again. He doesn’t even know what to say, doesn’t even know where to start. The child nestled against Geralt stops him from demanding an apology, and his own pride stops him from asking if Geralt knows that the song was about him. Jaskier’s throat is so dry, and his heart is parched too. 

“To protect her,” Geralt continues, desperation back in his voice. “We try to not get into towns too much, but she needed to get some real sleep.” 

He had never shown that much concern for Jaskier. Or at least, he had never voiced it. There had been times, when Jaskier had been complaining that his back hurt, that he couldn’t handle so much time away from civilization, when Geralt had stirred them to some town or another. Jaskier had always assumed it was to get a contract and some coin. Never to have some comfort brought to his companion. 

“You have a lovely voice,” Ciri pipes in finally. “I really liked your last song. Did you write it yourself?” 

If Jaskier’s throat had been dry before, it’s nothing compared to now. He feels like it has shifted towards being a sandy desert. Still, he forces himself to gulp down some of the sweet wine he had gotten himself and nods. 

“I did, miss Ciri. Composed it all by myself, wrote the lyrics, and now I get to perform it wherever I go. Such is the life of a wandering bard.” 

“It was a bit sad though,” she chews on some of the meat in her stew and looks up at him again, a spark of _something_ in her eyes. “Is it about anyone you know?” 

Jaskier can’t help himself; his eyes drift to Geralt, who is watching the exchange with something almost… yearning in his eyes, something like guilt and love and pain all mixed in one. 

“No,” he lies, pain resonating through his body before he looks back at Ciri, “It’s purely invented, but that’s a secret you must keep! My reputation depends on it.” 

She smiles but doesn’t look convinced. “It sounded like it was real to me.” 

The gods forgive him, Jaskier actually wonders if that child can read his thoughts, or if she has heard the story from another source. 

“That’s where the deception lies,” he says smoothly, keeping his eyes firmly on her now. “The audience must think it is real, otherwise I’ll just leave this place penniless and hungry.” 

He adds a charming smile, and feels slightly proud of himself when she smiles back, seemingly content with that explanation. Geralt doesn’t speak up, doesn’t say anything more, and Jaskier chatters on and on with Ciri, who looks slightly overwhelmed but happy to have someone talkative around. He tries to ignore Geralt’s eyes on him, the way his heart beats faster when he catches a glimpse of the witcher. 

When the girl yawns, Geralt helps her up on her feet. “Time to go to our room then.” 

Jaskier sees his escape then. “Oh my, it is late! I should go get myself a room as well, completely forgot about that earlier. Well it was nice catching up with you two, but I suppose you’ll be off at dawn tomorrow!” 

He darts away from the table faster than Geralt can catch him, towards the bar. “Hello again there,” he calls out to the innkeeper, who gives him a strange look. 

He _was_ seated with a witcher just a few seconds ago. “Do you have any free room for a poor soul?” 

“All the rooms are taken,” the innkeeper says gruffly. “Last one was taken by your friend. Double bed too.” 

“Share with us Jaskier,” Ciri says from behind him, her voice sweet. “There is more than enough room for us three!” 

Jaskier freezes. His eyes dart around, his heartbeat increases, and his breath comes short. He can’t. He’ll go sleep outside, in the woods, it wouldn’t be the first time and at least he has some money from earlier and— 

A large hand — _Geralt’s hand_ , his mind supplies — settles on his shoulder. “Please, Jaskier. Come share the room with us.” 

And Jaskier is weak. So he forces himself to calm down, forces the fear of hearing Geralt say that he meant all he said on the mountain, forces down the desire to flee, and he follows them up the stairs, to a bedroom where two large beds barely fit. 

“I’ll um,” Jaskier’s eyes dart around the room, and he relaxes when he finds a spot of empty floor. “I’ll take the floor then! Thank you for offering me your room, that’s most kind of you two—“ 

“Jaskier,” Geralt looks almost hurt, but Jaskier knows that can’t be true, Geralt can’t be hurt, Geralt doesn’t care about Jaskier, they aren’t even friends and—

“Jaskier, gods, are you alright?” 

Geralt’s hands are on his cheeks, forcing him to look up. His eyes are scanning Jaskier’s, before moving down as he makes sure there is no wound. There is a deep frown on Geralt’s face, and Jaskier wants to smooth it, but he also doesn’t. Because he is heartbroken, and a bit angry, and so, so desperate. 

“Jaskier, you need to breathe,” Geralt says and his thumbs rub reassuring circles on Jaskier’s cheeks. “Can you follow what I’m going to tell you?” 

Jaskier would follow Geralt to the end of the world and back thrice over. He nods. 

“Good,” Geralt says, and when he starts giving Jaskier instructions, his voice is soft and measured. 

It does not send shiver up and down Jaskier’s spine. 

"That's good," Geralt murmurs when Jaskier's breathing is regular again. "How are you feeling?" 

"Um." Jaskier is feeling fucking lost. What's with this gentle, tender Geralt? "Better. Thank you." 

"Of course. Get in bed Jaskier, I'll join you in a second."

Jaskier almost yells when Geralt says that, because how can he act like nothing has changed between them? How can he act like he hasn't treated Jaskier like shit and threw him away? He broke Jaskier's heart, clean in half, with no chance of recovery. 

Still, Jaskier obeys. He removes his doublet but keeps the rest of his clothes on, suddenly reminded of the presence of a thirteen years old girl in the room. A thirteen years old who is watching him with wide, intelligent eyes, sometimes moving her look to Geralt, who is making sure the door and windows are properly protected.

"Goodnight Ciri," Geralt says and, to Jaskier's surprise, embraces the girl in a warm embrace. She melts into it and returns it. Clearly, those two are more comfortable than Jaskier had thought they would be. 

"Goodnight Geralt. Goodnight Jaskier." She looks at him and, before she turns her back to him, he could swear she winks at him.

Geralt walks back to the bed he shares with Jaskier and, shameless as ever, takes off his clothing until he is left in smallclothes. Jaskier diverts his eyes. Just for one night, and then he'll be free to wallow in his misery for all eternity. 

The bed dips slightly and Jaskier tenses all the muscles in his body not to move as well as Geralt settles in. Silence envelops them, and Jaskier prays to fall asleep fast. 

He is still wide awake an hour later, and he can tell Geralt is as well. Fully expecting to be mostly ignored, he startles when Geralt moves to be facing him. 

"Jaskier. I need to tell you something." His voice is barely a whisper, probably to avoid waking Ciri up. "I have to... I have to apologize." 

Jaskier doesn't turn towards him, despite the way his body aches to. 

“Those words I told you,” he clears his throat, clearly unused with the exercise of speaking without Jaskier answering. “I regret them. From the moment they left my mouth, I knew it was wrong. I should not have said any of that. If anything, you have helped me all those years.” 

Geralt reaches out tentatively, but when Jaskier still doesn’t turn to him, he sighs heavily and retreats. “I cannot take back my words, I cannot change what I have said. I can only beg forgiveness and hope to be different, to be a better man, a better friend.” 

Jaskier turns to him now, and his heart is full of held back tears, but his eyes are steel. “I’ve yet to hear you beg.” 

Geralt’s mouth falls open slowly, and he looks at Jaskier like he is a completely stranger. But Jaskier needs to hear Geralt’s sincerity, he needs him to be honest, because Jaskier’s heart is already broken in half and he refuses to take more heartbreak from the same man. No matter how much he loves Geralt, no matter how much he aches to touch him, to hug him and tell him he forgives him, he needs to do this for himself. He needs to show Geralt too that he can’t treat him like that anymore. 

“Please, Jaskier. Forgive me,” Geralt says in a soft, heartbroken voice, and isn’t that ironic? “I was overcome with madness and I couldn’t deal, and I took it all out on you. My life has been made better by your presence in it. Your absence has been slowly driving me insane, and I miss you. I miss you so much, Jaskier, because I know how much I hurt you. I know that you have a life, a better life than whatever I can offer you, but… You’ll always be welcome at my side. Ciri needs someone who is … better at words too. Someone she can talk with. If you… If you wanted to come back… I would be the happiest I have ever been, to travel with you two.” 

This litany of words is unexpected, and Jaskier is the one gaping now. He hardly recognizes this Geralt, the one who looks at him with golden eyes full of hope and pain. 

“What about Yennefer?” He finally asks, and her name on his lips hurt, even if he knows that Geralt has chosen her. “Are you happy with her now?” 

Geralt scoffs slightly. “No. I can’t be happy with her.” 

“Can’t?” 

“Can’t be happy with the one I don’t love,” Geralt murmurs, and his eyes lock with Jaskier’s. “I’ll always be searching for someone else.” 

And oh, _oh_. The witcher shouldn’t be allowed to say those things, not when he looks so deliciously contrite about what he did, not when he lies nearly fully naked in the same bed as Jaskier. He shouldn’t be able to make Jaskier hope this way. 

“That’s unfair,” Jaskier whispers in the silence that has settled. “You can’t say those things Geralt. You can’t do this to me, not again, not after everything.” 

“Jaskier…” Geralt reaches out and doesn’t stop himself this time. His hand, warm and large, settles on Jaskier’s cheek. 

“ _Keep him and protect him for me_ ,” he recites, the tender words falling out of his mouth strangely. “Am I right in thinking the song is about me and Yennefer?” 

Jaskier chokes on his own breath, moves back, but Geralt grabs his wrist and holds him in place loosely. If Jaskier wanted, he could slip his hand out of the delicate hold, but he doesn’t want to. He craves Geralt, wants him more than he has ever wanted anything. And Jaskier has wanted so many things in his life, he can hardly believe that this witcher who had taken twenty years to realize that his bad is madly in love with him is the one person his heart has chosen to yearn for until the early hours of the day. 

“Don’t make me say it,” Jaskier answers. “Don’t be so cruel to me, Geralt.” 

“Is it cruelty to hope that your affection is returned? Is it cruelty to try and tell the man you love that you want him, as much as he wants you?” 

Jaskier can’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks. This is all a dream, a cruel dream, and when he will wake up, he will be alone and aching again. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers again, “I’ve chosen you. Not Yennefer, not anybody else, you. It took me so long to realize it. I am sorry I caused you so much pain. You are… You deserve a better man than I am,” he huffs at his own words, but he keeps going. “But I am selfish, and I want you for myself. You asked me once if I wanted anything, and I said I didn’t, but I realize now that it was a lie. I love you, Jaskier, and if you let me, I will prove it, over and over.” 

“This isn’t like you,” Jaskier protests a bit, but he inches closer to Geralt anyway. “You’ve never been good with words this way.” 

A short silence follows his statement, and Geralt’s eyes dart away from him. “Ciri might have helped.” 

This startles a laugh out of Jaskier, who forces himself to keep it down to not wake up the little girl in the other bed. “Did you repeat your love declaration with your thirteen years old daughter?” 

Geralt grunts a bit, and there Jaskier recognizes him better. 

“Say it again,” Jaskier whispers, so close to Geralt now that he can feel the heat of his body, can smell the woods he had been sleeping in, and even the smell of fire in the white hair of the witcher. It’s a known feeling, something that he loves and wants more of, but he just wants to hear it again, to make sure this isn’t a dream. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, his hands coming up to caress Jaskier’s hair. “I am sorry, and I love you.” 

Jaskier shivers and closes his eyes, and he lets his head fall again Geralt’s chest. “I forgive you,” he murmurs in the skin there, and can feel Geralt’s hands tensing and relaxing where they have moved. Jaskier allows himself to be wrapped in Geralt’s arms, to let the witcher feel his back and chest. He won’t deny him this, won’t refuse any touch. He had thought, barely a few hours ago, that he would never get to have this. The only times Geralt allowed such closeness was when they accidentally woke up too close to one another, or whenever one of them was hurt. To be this close, this tender? It nips at the heartbreak in Jaskier’s chest, slowly softens the ache. 

“Was the song about me then?” Geralt asks roughly, and Jaskier laughs again, stifling the sound against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Yes, Geralt. That song could not any more clearly have been about you. You must have known that I have always loved you. That I have always loved you, from the moment I set eyes on you in a dingy tavern in Posada to the minute you broke my heart on that mountain.” 

“I’m—“ Geralt starts, but Jaskier stops him with a finger to his lips. 

“I forgave you already. I forgave you a long time ago, Geralt of Rivia. Know that if you do it again however, I am walking out of your life. It might shatter my heart completely, but I will not let myself be treated like shit because I love you. I have written songs after songs to your glory, but I will write songs after songs to your demise if you treat me, or little Ciri, or even Yennefer for that matter, this way. People are not there for you to yell at and push around to your convenience. If your emotions overwhelm you, then you ask for help. You understand that? Help, Geralt, not pushing us away.” 

It takes a few moments of silence, during which Jaskier lets himself touch the hairy chest he had always wanted to touch more than in passing. 

“Alright. I will ask for help.” It is said grimly, almost like an oath, and Jaskier has to stifle his laughter again. 

He feels overwhelmed himself at the moment. He doesn’t know what this means for them exactly, he doesn’t know what the next day will bring, but he knows he feels more than happy with Geralt’s arm around his waist. And frankly, after nearly a year of heartache and pain, he can’t ask for more. He wants to let himself sink into that joy.

“Thank you Geralt,” he murmurs. 

He is nestling himself comfortably against the witcher, his head resting on the man’s chest, when there is a slight grumble from above him, as Geralt clears his throat again. And again. Jaskier assumes that the witcher only wants a glass of water and ignores it, but the third time, he looks up, an eyebrow raising. 

“Do you have something to say?” 

“I… Shouldn’t we…” he looks embarrassed, and his eyes dart around the room slightly. It’s the first time Jaskier can say he has seen Geralt truly nervous, with the way he wets his lips and tries to escape Jaskier’s eyes, but in the end he looks down and into them. “Can I kiss you?” 

Jaskier can’t resist; he grins, wide and large. “Geralt of Rivia, are you nervous about kissing me? Why, I would never have taken you for the shy kind.” 

_You certainly weren’t with Yennefer_ , his mind, treacherous and angry, whispers. He doesn’t say it though; Jaskier is the one with Geralt in his arms now, and Geralt had said he loved him, not Yennefer. Whatever the past had been, it remains the past, and if they ever cross path with Yennefer again, then he’ll keep his own jealousy under control. Despite everything that happened, he trusts Geralt. He is a man of honour, the best man Jaskier knows, and he would not betray Jaskier this way. 

“I’m not shy,” Geralt growls, but his earlier behaviour says otherwise. “I wasn’t sure you would want to.” 

Jaskier slowly lifts himself from his resting position, Geralt’s arm falling down. His movements earn him a confused glance and something that almost sounds like a whine, and he grins again, pleased with the reaction he is getting. He glances quickly to Ciri’s bed, doesn’t see the girl moving, and breathes out. He’s glad the girl’s asleep. 

He moves the covers away, and stops Geralt from asking any questions by pressing his hand to his mouth. Slowly, he straddles his torso, and Geralt’s chest is so large, Jaskier’s legs are wide open so that his knees can reach the bed underneath. He can feel every shiver, every muscle shifting, every single movements the witcher makes, and that itself is a delight on its own. But Geralt’s blown out pupils, the way his hands are tightened in fists at his sides? It makes Jaskier _hungry_. He wishes they had a room of their own, so that they could take this further, but it isn’t meant to be tonight. 

“Trust me,” he tells Geralt, and when the man nods, he takes his hands, uncurl them from their tense positions, and puts them on his own hips. He regrets still wearing his pants suddenly; he wishes he could feel Geralt’s hands directly on his skin, on his ass and waist. He wishes he could feel Geralt’s torso between his thighs. 

Geralt’s hands tighten slightly on his waist and his thumbs move up and down, caressing his back. Jaskier shivers and slowly removes his hand from Geralt’s mouth, making sure he stays quiet. There is confusion in the golden eyes of his witcher, but as Jaskier gets closer and closer, there is fondness and love shining through. Jaskier can say that now, Geralt _loves_ him. 

“You love me,” he whispers against Geralt’s mouth, almost capturing it in his own but not quite. He wants to hear it one more time, wants to feel the vibrations of his lover’s chest when he says it. Wants to feel that love envelop and burn him. 

“I love you.” Geralt doesn’t move, lets him have all the control. “I love you, Jaskier.” 

And that’s what undoes him. That is what makes him reach down and kiss him, so softly and tenderly that he wants to cry. Then Geralt opens his mouth slightly, and it turns more messy, more passionate. They kiss like they have been waiting to do so for years, like they can’t bear to lose another second to cruel time. 

They part, both panting slightly and Jaskier places a soft kiss on Geralt’s throat. He earns a groan for that, but then he finds himself suddenly pinned under Geralt. 

“Don’t tease me,” he grows in a low voice. “My daughter is sleeping right next to us.” 

Jaskier resists the urge the moan at the feeling of being trapped under his witcher. “Then don’t hold me like this.” 

Geralt has an interested light in his eyes, and he leans down to kiss Jaskier again. Clearly, the idea pleases him and Jaskier grins through the kiss. He is going to _wreck_ his darling witcher. 

“I can’t be parted from you again,” Geralt murmurs when he has fallen back on his pillow, Jaskier cuddled up close to him again. “I won’t tolerate it.” 

“Oh, you won’t?” Jaskier teases and draws out a kiss from his lover. “I don’t want that either. But you are going to Kaer Morhen, home of the witchers, and I’m a simple bard.” 

“Come with us,” Geralt asks, something almost like begging in his tone. “Travel to Kaer Morhen with us, and spend the winter there. With me.” 

“Won’t the other witchers mind?” Jaskier tangles his hand in Geralt’s hair, pecking his lips lightly. “I don’t want to create trouble between you and your family.” 

“You are my family now,” Geralt growls and holds him tighter. “I won’t allow us to be parted again.”

Warmth and joy flood Jaskier when Geralt says this. Geralt would fight for him, would even fight his own kind if they rejected Jaskier. Of course, he would rather it never comes to that point, but the devotion in Geralt’s tone is enough to have him melting slightly. 

“Alright,” Jaskier murmurs. “I’ll come with you to Kaer Morhen, my witcher.” 

Geralt kisses him again, and Jaskier’s heart is slowly healing. It will take more than one evening, he knows, but this, this is a good start. 

In the morning, when Ciri teases them about being lovebirds, Geralt grunts but keeps his hand on Jaskier’s thighs. The world feels alright again. 

**Author's Note:**

> They are, if you will, softhorny. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this! Come chat me up on tumblr @saltytransidiot, or leave a comment here! I nearly always answer lol


End file.
